


joining themselves in fatal harmony,

by EclipseBorn



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Episode AU: s12e10 The Timeless Children, Episode: s12e10 The Timeless Children, F/M, Multi, OR IS IT, Thoschei, a 'what could have been' for the ending, best enemies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23007706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclipseBorn/pseuds/EclipseBorn
Summary: If the Doctor was feeling nostalgic, she’d say there was a time when she knew Koschei’s mind better than her own. Better than even he did, most days.If she were feeling cruel, she’d insist that there was nothing beyond the veneer of horror – that what had once been her friend was nothing more than a cover, to disguise the monster of a man he’d grown to be.And if she were truthful, the Doctor would admit that there was once a time where she knew Koschei intimately, wherein his hearts she entrusted all of her secrets, and he returned the gesture. But there was a darkness within them both, and whilst she hid, and deflected, and used it as a bitter knife hidden within kind words, he fractured and split and lashed out at the skies.*************A 'what could have been' for the ending of the Timeless Children, where the Doctor realises the Master's game and they escape together, an unsure future spread out before them. I don't know if I'll continue it, but please let me know if you'd like that!
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 190





	1. Chapter 1

If the Doctor was feeling nostalgic, she’d say there was a time when she knew Koschei’s mind better than her own. Better than even he did, most days.

If she were feeling cruel, she’d insist that there was nothing beyond the veneer of horror – that what had once been her friend was nothing more than a cover, to disguise the monster of a man he’d grown to be.

And if she were truthful, the Doctor would admit that there was once a time where she knew Koschei intimately, wherein his hearts she entrusted all of her secrets, and he returned the gesture. But there was a darkness within them both, and whilst she hid, and deflected, and used it as a bitter knife hidden within kind words, he fractured and split and lashed out at the skies.

There had been a time where they had promised each other to travel amongst the stars and witness every one with their own eyes. To spend their regenerations as their own companions, tasting the fruit of the universe. For a long time, the Doctor had considered that to be an ever-broken promise. And then, not so long ago, she’d thought that there had been… hope. Reconciliation. Her friend, back at last. An end to an ageless aggression between them both.

That hope had been buried as it always should’ve been, but she could admit, now, inside the confines of her own mind, with death staring her brazenly in the eye with a puppy dog gaze, that she _did_ know the Master. Always would, always will, and so that meant…

“You don’t want to die,” she said, with certainty. Her thumb was still positioned above the trigger of the bomb, death particle still hanging precariously in the air.

The Master stared back, all doe eyes and messy fringe, and he laughed, loud and pitched, as this regeneration was wont to do. “Oh, yeah. No one _wants_ to die. What I want is to see you – the ever-perfect Doctor, salvation of the universe – _kill_ me. Become me. Let the truth of our past wreck you, like it did me.”

“No,” she shook her head, letting the bomb drop, uncaring of the Cyber-Masters (regardless of everything else, it was _still_ a godawful name) and their weapons, “I mean. You don’t want to die. You want to be killed. Like always. You win, if you die. Because you want death. I know you. I’ve been here before and –“ the Doctor took a breath, considering the death particle, the miniscule end of Gallifreyan life, “I won’t do it.”

“You will,” the Master swore. “Otherwise, my legion and I will be lifted to the heavens and raze it all. All of creation, dust under our heel, because of _your_ indecision.”

“Do it, then,” the Doctor said. She spread her arms out, looking between each of the masked Cyber-Masters, wondering who was hidden beneath. “Come on, do it. Kill me, lift yourselves up, destroy it all. Become the top dog that you’ve always wanted to be. I won’t stop you.”

The Master, predictably, did nothing. He stared, and continued to stare, and for a long, dreadful moment, the Doctor wondered if she’d miscalculated after all. And then, he collapsed onto the steps, back turned. “Stand down,” came the order, muffled behind his hands, and each of the Cyber-Masters slouched over.

She watched over his form for a skip of her hearts, the steady shake that ran through the line of his back, and then took a seat next to him. The bomb, the deaths it ensured, she rested on the stone between their bodies. The Master clocked the movement, tracking her hand with bloodshot eyes. He did not try to grab the trigger, and that left some hope to curdle within her.

“How’d you know?” he asked, wiping at his cheeks.

“You once died to spite me,” the Doctor said. It brought a smile to the Master’s face. “But you… you’d never willingly put yourself in that position. Only capitalise on it when it’s… given to you by a vengeful wife.”

“She died when they brought me back, you know,” the Master spoke like he was commenting on the weather, or the TARDIS’ lacklustre cloaking effect. “I treated her horribly, treated them all so _horribly_ , and it was only her that had the guts to kill me. Even I fail at that.”

“You choose them well,” she muttered, laughing with it, thinking of Lucy in a red dress and a bruise half down her face, of a funeral with only family in attendance. The Master was counted, technically speaking, wasn’t he? Lucy had been of a good family. Caring. Conservatives, but no one was perfect. What had they thought of the Master, when he’d wooed their daughter? Had they hoped for grandchildren? How had Christmas gone? The _honeymoon_?

“Stop,” the Master sighed, pinching at his nose. “I can hear you from over here. It’s tiring.”

“It’s _tiring_?” the Doctor repeated. “You ruined a girl’s life, ruined Earth, and now Gallifrey, our people, our _families_ , and you’re tired?!”

“And you’re letting me live,” the Master said. She had no argument for that, and he smirked, though it was cracked at the edges. “And, for the record, I didn’t find your brother. He could’ve escaped.”

“Brax –“ The Doctor cut herself off before she truly began. Brax _what_? Died in the War? Somehow survived, only to escape Gallifrey before she could find it? That the Master had cut him down anyway, and was now suspended in metal, dead eyes staring out? Her eyes. She sighed.

When she realised her eyes had fallen shut, she opened them again, to find the Master watching her, quiet and attentive. Waiting, watching, wondering – she could feel his curiosity at the boundaries of her mind, a slow caress over the senses.

“I destroyed Gallifrey,” was his confession, halting in the air, and there was no joy there as there had been earlier, no quips and glee.

“So did I,” she replied, linking her fingers through his and focusing on the fine hairs of his wrist.

Odd, how they could have a failed attempt at genocide as a shared life experience. Failed, because they still lived, the two of them, the last of the Time Lords, and she remembered, could remember still, what it was, to be alone, the very last mind in all of existence, how it rested within her. The revelations of the day hadn’t ruined that. She had been the first of their kind, and now she would be the last, only – only – she couldn’t. Not again.

There had been a time when the Master chose wilful death over life with her, she had held him, as he bled out, had sobbed into his shoulder as the flesh turned grey and cold, until Jack had to pull her away, a whirlwind of confliction within him – joy, over the monster’s downfall, and horrific realisation of what she’d lost when the Master had…

Her fingers clench around his, and the Master returns the gesture. Words weren’t necessary, not when they were surrounded by the bones of their people, upright and waiting, the heavy weight of artron energy filtered through the air. Regeneration always left her teeth tingling.

Time splintered before them. So many possibilities and potentialities. The Cyber-Masters had to die, only she couldn’t – she _wouldn’t_ let either of them die alongside them.

“Come with me.”

It wasn’t a question – more of an open-ended statement, meant to entice and enrapture. Conjure up thoughts and feelings of ages past, of an ageless affection. The only surprise was that it came from the Master.

The Doctor smiled for what felt like the first time in aeons. Their hands still linked, she felt some of the residual anger within the Master fade. A tidal wave falling to a wave falling to a ripple. So much rage at it all, so much fear – within and without. Of her. Of the kernel of _her_ that made _him_.

“Where would we go?”

His smile echoed her own. “Anywhere you wanted. There are still a few TARDISes left. We could hitch a ride. Take it to the opposite end of the universe and make our way back.”

“You’d want to come back?” That amused her. He wrecked it all, tore it down, reduced even their bodies to weapons, to be used for more death and destruction, and here she was, offering an escape and, he’d _return_.

“No place like home,” the Master said, and they could both be excused for laughing. It had been a _day_. When they quietened, he stood and refused to let their shared grip drop. He swung their hands in the air, straightening his outfit with his free hand, brushing through his hair. “So,”

“So,” she repeated.

“You won’t leave Gallifrey with that lot still here,” the Master nodded toward his creations. “And I have an idea for that.”

Their hands fell apart, leaving the Doctor to tuck her knees against her chest. He bent to grab the trigger, running a hand over the miniaturised Ashad, the death particle within. There was a silver sheen throughout his skin, a reminder of the Cyberium. Another problem.

“I can order one of them to detonate it,” the Master said. “Or do it myself.”

“No,” the Doctor said, before the idea had the chance to settle. “We’ll have it be – you can’t keep the Cyberium. Whatever we do, wherever we go, you can’t keep it.”

“It needs a living host, Doctor,” the Master forced back, and there it was, a crash of anger striking throughout him. “And where else would it go? Inside you? _No_.”

The Doctor smiled, and then nodded to the nearest Cyber-Master. “They still count as lifeforms, don’t they? If you force it out, and neither of us accept it, it’ll have to take one of them as its host. Sounds simple to me.”

The Master followed her gaze, running fingers alongside the streak of silver across his cheek. There was an internal struggle – a question of whether it was a power he wanted to abandon. In their battles across time, she’d never known him to willingly give up power unless it was a ploy for something else. Usually domination over her – physically or mentally. This was a man who’d let himself die just to win one over on her.

Here and now, however, the Master gave a pained grunt that grew into a whimper as he forced his wrist out, the walls of his mind bending and breaking as the Cyberium thickened into a steady stream of metallic liquid, hovering in the air before them. The Doctor yanked the Master away until it had a chance to re-enter, then forced the trigger into the lax grip of the nearest Cyber-Master.

She tugged on the Master’s own elbow then, urging him to follow the plan, to _move_ , and the Cyberium was already moving towards the most central of the Cyber-Masters even as the Master himself said, “Detonate the death particle!”

There was no time to check, to see, to witness the end of everything Gallifrey was. They ran with their linked hands up stairs and through corridors, to the first TARDIS they came across, clinically white and trembling underfoot as they threw themselves at the controls and brought it out of synch with their surroundings.

“Do a check,” the Doctor said, even as the Master worked away at the scanner, “See if they-“

“It’s gone,” the Master whispered. “It’s – physically, it’s _there_ , but it’s registering no lifeforms. We did it.”

And then a laugh, spilling from his throat, uncontrollable in its pure glee, as the Master clutched at the console and bent over, biting at his sleeve until the Doctor realised it wasn’t laughter and was rather sobs.

She moved to offer comfort, though her hand only ended up suspended in the air, frozen in realisation. Gallifrey had now been destroyed, reduced to nothing. There would be no return, no wonder at silver-leafed trees, no facts of the universe rebranded as myths. And what was there to mourn, really? They had lost a race that had done no good for the universe, or for the Doctor. A dead mother, an imprisoned father, a brother lost to time – and none of them _hers_ , because she was older than their race, than their bedtime stories, the very building blocks of Gallifreyan civilisation. Of _Gallifrey_.

It was true that she was resolute in her identity, that she was the Doctor and always would be – this didn’t change who she _was_ , only where she came from. As much as any other regeneration. And yet. The Doctor couldn’t admit to… acceptance, either. She came from another universe. There was no end to her. She’d been found by a mother who instead used her as an experiment, a plaything, used her over and over again, and the discovery of that crime had brought about the end of _all_ life.

No. Not quite right. The discovery had done nothing.

It was the Master who ended it all. How had he done it? A big red button, perhaps? Not his style. It would’ve been personal, full of blood and sweat, to remind the Time Lords that they had the same weaknesses as the rest of the universe and could be killed all the same.

Gallifrey had died a third time, and there was no one to watch over the carnage. A bloated corpse.

“Other end of the universe, yeah?” the Doctor asked, eyes on the scanner. She should get the TARDIS. Her TARDIS. She’d know what to do, where to go. And the Fam! The Fam, back in Sheffield, with the last survivors of humanity tagging along. She needed to let them know she was still alive.

Still alive, with the Master at her side. That brought things back down to Earth. So, to speak.

“And do what?” the Master sighed in response. He fell to his knees and relaxed against the console, a dead gaze staring out. “We’ve danced this game before, Doctor, and it never leads anywhere. I betray you. You leave me to die. I return. I’m tired.”

Again, there was some gall that he was tired, after the wreckage he’d left the universe in – that it was only now, after she’d ensured he was safe, that he found a flaw in their plan. But could she blame him? No. Be amazed at him, as always, but there was no blame. Only understanding.

She was tired too.

Her _Fam_. Turned into weapons – Ryan had a body count. A body count. Knew his way around weapons. They all did. Because she led them there. Of course, they’d asked and begged, because it was the right thing to do, because she was their friend, their family, and what’s what you _do_ , for family, isn’t it?

The Doctor didn’t know. Her family had died a long time ago. Those three had been distant echoes, not quite taking the proper shape – Graham was lovely, but he was no Wilf, and she struggled with them always. Humans were so _other_ , now, and wasn’t that hilariously ironic.

“We can’t go on like we are,” the Doctor agreed, catching the Master’s eye. “But we… with Missy, we… almost…” There was something within him that changed at that, made her falter, made her question herself. Missy had almost bridged the gap between them, only to fall at the last hurdle, but looking in the Master’s eyes now, feeling the rapid shifts of his mind; it all left the Doctor uncertain that she knew Missy at all. “I… don’t know.”

“Neither do I,” he huffed. He looked away again, inspecting the panels of this new TARDIS, running a thumb along the fabric of his cuff. “Maybe you should’ve left me there.”

“I don’t want you dead anymore than you do,” the Doctor said. The Master’s face flickered into what could’ve been a smile, but it was gone too quickly to properly catch. “Master, I… don’t know what to say.”

She bent low enough that it made sense to kneel next to him, hands folded in her lap, hearts beating in too-fast tempo. The Doctor felt more that she was on the edge of a cliff rather than the floor of a TARDIS. A TARDIS that wasn’t currently doing her utmost best to throw them overboard.

There came a sigh from the Master, high and lofty, entirely for show. It drew her attention, as it was meant to, and when their gazes met, the Master gave a smile that was a touch too fake to be easily believed.

Regardless of that, he reached across to link their fingers together, as she had earlier, and spoke with a reassuring confidence, “Maybe we don’t talk then. Or think. We just… pick a place and see what we find. Run away from it all.” The smile sharpened into a smirk, and that was _all_ Master. Odd how relieved she was to see it again. “It’ll be like old times.”

The Doctor snorted at that but didn’t argue back. Instead she stood, pulling him with her, and busied herself at the controls. There wasn’t a verbal question on what part the Master would play – he simply helmed where she did not, corrected oversights, and as the TARDIS began to roll beneath them, the Doctor could admit that this was entirely out of character for the Koschei she knew, and that she wouldn’t challenge it for all the worlds in the sky.

There came the question, still, as to why he’d go along with it all, if he was speaking any semblance of the truth, if any of this would _mean_ something in ten, a hundred, or a thousand years. Not so long ago, she’d thought that she had Koschei by her side again. It would be dangerous to let herself fall for the same trick twice – more than that, really.

But without hope, there was no life. And they were the very last traces of Gallifrey left, now. She had to have hope. _Had_ to. And… just maybe, he had hope, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I really hope y'all didn't expect this to be roses from here on out... but also congrats to u all for convincing me to write a continuation. I really loved reading your thoughts, and the kudos and reads meant everything!! Thank you so much!)
> 
> Continuing from the Truce that neither one wants to openly admit to, the Doctor has an unwilling recollection of what she once considered to be her first life. And then gets set on fire.

He spotted the boy early on the first day of class, long before it was scheduled to start. An early Time Lord was one on time, as the saying went, and it wasn’t a surprise that the strange youngling of Lungburrow would make himself appear as clandestine as possible.

Koschei hung at the back of the room as it slowly filled, each person of his Chapter taking their places, and leaving a careful circle around the Lungburrow boy. Again, not a surprise, but Koschei knew what it was like, to be ostracised like that – so it didn’t take much courage at all to pick the closest seat to the boy, setting his books down on the desk and not at all checking to see his new neighbour’s response.

When Professor Alluntodrova arrived, precisely on time, it was with a grand flourish of her red cape. She stood at the board and begin to deliver a speech on Gallifreyan history, how this knowledge would become the bedrock of all they would learn, and Koschei mostly dozed off throughout. This was stuff that he, and any other respecting member of a Great House, already knew.

The Lungburrow boy, on the other hand, took careful and detailed notes – in solitary circles that made up the span of his parchment. Koschei recognised them as Old High Gallifreyan, a language lost to Gallifrey’s primitive era. How curious that a boy would pick it up so easily.

A cane rapped on his table, leaving Koschei to find Professor Allunto glaring down at him. He smiled sheepishly in response.

“Oakdown, yes?” Allunto asked. Koschei nodded. “Your history is an old one. Surely, then, you could answer my question on the battle patterns of the Kasodorian Empire.”

“They always attack to the left?” Koschei offered. There was a light tittering behind him, and Koschei sighed before giving the proper answer, “Their light temporal sense made them aware of their enemies plots. They’d allow them to happen but would perfectly counterbalance every attempt at their cities and ports. This then led to their downfall, as their enemies led them into a trap.”

Allunto hummed, withdrawing her cane with a nod of acceptance. “Well done. There may be some hope for you yet. You, Lungburrow –“ Lungburrow boy did not seem pleased to be called upon. “What existed before the thread was anchored?”

Koschei sucked in a breath. _That_ was a tough one. Even his eldest siblings would struggle to answer. At eight years of age, the Anchoring was a bedtime tale – but before that? There was nothing before that.

“Trick question,” said the Lungburrow boy, with a crease in his brow.

“How so?” Allunto posed the question as innocent inquiry. No one believed it.

He wanted to say something, to defend the boy, but there were weights around his ankles that stopped the words from forming. It would only draw Allunto’s anger onto himself – and Founders’ only knew what the rest of the class would say.

“Trick question, because nothing existed before the thread was Anchored,” the boy said, prim with it, “And also because everything existed before. The thread was a linear time – before that, the universe existed as one. It’s only now that it stretches before us and behind us.” He smiled. “Trick question.”

Allunto sighed. She didn’t correct him, or even congratulate him on what was a _superb_ answer, in Koschei’s opinion, and instead turned back to the chalkboard. Chalk. Ridiculous. Used entirely for presence and an appeal to the senses, he knew – most other classrooms had 4D holo-boards or goggles to explore virtual environments. They were too civilised for chalk.

But Koschei wasn’t the only one impressed by the boy’s answer, it seemed. The Fordfarding girl, Ushas, leaned forward in interest and tapped the boy on the shoulder. She whispered something, quiet and too lofty for Koschei to catch, but when the boy turned around again, he bore a fragile smile.

The class passed slowly. Being born with the ability to sense every drop of time’s blood left boring classes to be the bane of Koschei’s life – when the bell rang to signal second period, it was a sigh of relief until he realised it meant _another_ hour spent in misery.

He took his time packing his things away, as Allunto wiped at the board, and the Lungburrow boy rubbed at his eyes. Spent too long staring intently at the board.

“You have lovely handwriting,” Koschei said, and immediately regretted it, because what sort of an opening was _that_? ‘Oh, my name is Koschei, you have beautiful handwriting, do you want to be my friend?’ – he should’ve just announced he was a moron to the whole class. “Sorry.”

The boy gave a smile that was a touch more tired than it ought to have been after only one class. “Compliments aren’t usually something one apologises for.”

Koschei gave an awkward shrug. “Still. You’re, um, from Lungburrow, yeah?”

There was an almost invisible line to the boy’s shoulders as he answered, in a carefully restricted voice, “Yes. And you’re Oakdown.” It was not a question.

“I didn’t catch your name earlier,” Koschei said, offering a hand, because that’s what humans did, right? “I _am_ from Oakdown, my name is – well, you can call me Koschei.”

The boy accepted the hand and shook it. “Theta Sigma.”

“That’s Greek, isn’t it?” That fit. His mother had said something about – well, about Sigma’s mother, some link with Greek mythology of some kind. He didn’t entirely understand the intricacies of it all.

“And yours is Russian,” Sigma finished packing away his belongings, then shouldered his satchel. He walked from the room in steady, even steps, and Koschei rushed to keep up. “Did you pick it yourself?”

Koschei rolled his eyes. “As if. I would’ve picked something with a bit more flair.”

“I think you have enough of that already,” Sigma said. It took Koschei a moment to be offended.

* * *

The Doctor woke with nearer a groan than a gasp.

Sunlight filtered down through golden leaves, leaving her to squint at them until her eyes adjusted, and she realised that the tree she was leaning against was running much too hot to be a _tree_ , and there was the Master, standing against the sunrise. Posing as ever.

She didn’t recall falling asleep. She certainly didn’t recall asking to be nostalgic – to take a trip down the road of their history. And that, that wasn’t just strolling down the cobbles, that was digging up the paving and poking at the ruins beneath. It most certainly came from the Master himself; but therein lay a question. Had he intentionally sent those memories over, or had he been reminiscing himself, and she’d simply caught the after-effects?

The Doctor didn’t know which was more disconcerting.

“You’ve only been out for an hour,” the Master said, before she had time to think of that question herself. “We’re somewhere in the Phalmonsia Systems. Turvis, if I had to narrow it down.”

“Turvis?” the Doctor repeated. “ _Turvis_. Isn’t that the one with flesh-eating microorganisms in the upper atmosphere?”

“Yeah,” the Master sighed out. “I once dropped a freighter into them. Wasn’t pretty.”

His smile was too fond for the Doctor to be pleased over. But then, what was she to do? They hadn’t agreed on anything. There was no silent understanding that the Master was redeeming himself. Even when they _had_ that, it meant nothing. The Master would always be the Master, and the Master loved death. Courted it as he never had with anyone else.

“On the positive side,” he continued, turning to look back at her, and making the Doctor blink at the sudden influx of raw sunlight, “It does give us the benefit of being alone.”

“Turvis has indigenous life,” the Doctor couldn’t help but point out. “All carnivorous.”

“I really _do_ love this place,” the Master sighed before shaking his head. “Not my point. They’ve barely even realised that fire is hot yet – they won’t be disturbing us. We can…”

He trailed off. The Doctor gave him a moment, could see the visible confusion on his face, feel the turmoil within them both. Eventually, he met her gaze and shrugged. He had nothing else to add.

“We can… talk,” the Doctor finished for him. “About. Stuff?”

“Stuff?”

“You know. Stuff. In the universe. And our… lives,” the Doctor wasn’t good with personal feelings on a good day with forewarning and cue cards. And that was with humans – they were the easiest things in the universe to deal with. Right word here, right facial expression there. Even an idiot could understand how to talk to them. Naturally, this left the Doctor at a massive disadvantage, and the Master impossibly more so. Leaving them together… on a carnivorous world where everything wanted to eat them… and a TARDIS she didn’t know and certainly couldn’t trust…

“Our lives,” the Master repeated, sotto. He then continued, in a much more jovial tone that the Doctor immediately knew was sarcastic, and said, “Well, recently I discovered that my entire cultural identity and society was a lie and so I destroyed my home planet and every single person I found on it. And then I tried to kill you. Repeatedly. Then you abandoned me in an alternate dimension. Then I found my way back, with no help from you, or anyone else, just to wait in the burned wreckage of my home planet for you to return so I could tell you the truth about _your_ horrible origin story.”

The Master smacked his lips.

“Anything else?”

“You _also_ abandoned me in an alternate dimension,” the Doctor pointed out. “The same one.”

The Master flapped his hands, “That was intentional. I knew you’d get out.”

“ _Not_ the point,” she muttered. “The – you don’t just. Do that.”

“You did it to me.”

“Because you were trying to destroy humanity! Again! And you tried to kill all of my friends! Again! And you lied, tricked _and_ deceived me! Again!” The Doctor ran a hand through her hair, pushing herself up off the mossy floor and taking several paces away from him. “Not to mention everything _else_.”

“And you’re still the one who saw all of that and decided I should live,” the Master said. His words caused the Doctor to pause mid-pace, fingers clenched around the back of her neck, as he went on, “I know the crimes that I’ve done, Doctor. I make no excuses for them. I _should_ die. Anyone else would know that, too, dear.”

“You say that,” she sighed out, “But you came with me, didn’t you? You _let_ me. You could’ve… taken the bomb yourself, or activated the death particle, or any other means of death you’ve come across over the years. But you didn’t. When I offered my hand, you took it, and that – that means something. Regardless of whether or not we agree on what that something _is_.”

When she turned to look at him, the Master was engrossed with the cuff of his sleeve and its individual threads. There was a shine to his eyes that hadn’t been present a moment ago, but the Doctor knew that if she drew attention to it, things would only worsen. Instead, she looked past the Master, to the horizon, and the slowly dawning star. Turvis was, despite its rancid ways, a beautiful planet, full of reds and golds. There was a distant echo of Gallifrey, though it wasn’t quite right.

Perhaps that was why the Master chose to land them here.

There was something else, though, on the edges of the horizon – a distant trail of smoke, rising up into the morning light.

“I thought you said that the peoples here have barely figured out that fire is hot,” the Doctor said, jabbing a thumb toward it, “Someone over there’s learned how to control it.”

“Or it’s a bushfire,” the Master suggested, approaching her side. “Saw a lot of those in the Outback, love. We should leave before it reaches us.”

“You actually _stayed_ in the Outback?” the Doctor asked, somewhat amazed. The Outback was a beautiful place, one that she always enjoyed visiting, but – it was still awfully static. Not something she’d expect of the Master.

He rolled his eyes at her. “Part of being a convincing human is _not_ having the ability to leave whenever I wanted to.” The Master paused a moment, giving a careful roll of his shoulder, and then added, “I always returned at the same second I left, regardless. Some of us actually _passed_ their driving exams.”

The Doctor didn’t deign to respond to that gibe, and instead knocked her elbow into his side, “come on. That’s too contained for a bushfire. That’s controlled fire – intentional. Where it shouldn’t be!”

“I am _not_ being your companion,” the Master muttered.

“I’m not –“

But she was, wasn’t she? The Doctor bit her lip, looking away, unable to give him a true response. That was always how the cards fell – no matter how much she might give a token protest otherwise. Too much of a control freak to let someone else take charge. Which, ironically enough, didn’t endear her to the _Master_ too much.

“No companions,” the Master said, smirking like he knew exactly where her mind had gone. “Just two Time Lords – the last two – inspecting a strange bushfire. If you boss me around, I will push you into the ravine.”

“And if you murder anyone, I’ll –“ She’d _what_? – “Cry.”

“Oh no,” the Master began, making his way down the steep incline of the hill. “Whatever shall I do. The Doctor _crying_. Oncoming Storm, Destroyer of Worlds, Bringer of Migraines. Crying. Because of me. You’ve really changed me; I’ve sworn off all evil forever more –“

The Doctor shoved him on the back, leading him to stumble the rest of the way down the hill and laugh whilst doing so, somehow ecstatic that she dared be physical with him. Still, it didn’t hurt anyone for her to smile back at him and knock their shoulders together. The Master knocked back, leading her to trip over her own feet, and at that point, it was only fair for her to hook a foot around his ankles and send him falling.

* * *

“That was your fault,” the Master said.

“That was _your_ fault,” she corrected, absently.

The TARDIS sizzled slightly underfoot from where the fire had licked at her sides – she’d need rest, and a lot of it, so she could heal herself. That left the Doctor with a good enough reason to collect her _own_ TARDIS, regardless of the Master and his token protests.

“You said we should investigate it,” he mulishly pointed out, as he poured water from one boot.

“And you were the one that decided to poke the intelligent bushfire with a stick.”

“We didn’t _know_ it was intelligent,” the Master defended. “I thought it was just a regular fire. You know. The ones that don’t chase you halfway across a planet because _someone_ forgot which tree was the TARDIS.”

“That was both of us!” the Doctor hissed, pulling the final lever. The ship materialised with little to no fuss, though she did seem overly eager to lock the doors behind them when they finally vacated the premises. On the outside, she’d decided to blend into her environment as the biggest, ugliest, greyest rock ever beholden in the universe. _The_ TARDIS stood not ten feet away, brilliantly blue, and tugging on the Doctor’s psychic link even at this distance. It seemed to be an ever-constant stream of; _Why the fuck have you brought him here?!_

With a jolly tune, the Doctor unlocked the TARDIS and stepped aside to let the still-soggy Master in first. It was a world away from when she first allowed O onboard – that was more ‘oh look, cute spy guy, enjoy the marvels of the Mystical Man-Woman-Whatever’. _Now_ it was more;

“Could you not drip on the floor? I’ll have to clean that.”

The Master sent his best glare over his shoulder. “Would you prefer I drip elsewhere?”

The Doctor thought on it. “Uh, yeah? Like. The bathrooms. The swimming pools. The jacuzzis. Plenty of areas that are more suitable for this.”

“Why would you have a jacuzzi?” the Master wondered, before disappearing into the depths of the TARDIS. There was no worry that he’d find anything actually important. In fact, it’d be startling if he found anything at _all_ , and not just constant loops of the same corridor, given how tetchy the TARDIS was.

“Listen,” she began, whispering furiously to the console, “I know you don’t like him – _I_ don’t like him – but there was this thing, with Gallifrey, and the Cybermen, and then we were on Turvis, you know, with the flesh-eating microorganisms, and then there was this strangely intelligent bushfire, and I couldn’t just _leave_ him to burn to death! It was only thanks to the other TARDIS that we’re not still on fire!”

The TARDIS rolled underfoot, a surprising manoeuvre considering they hadn’t taken flight just yet, and the Doctor swatted at the console in annoyance.

“He’s staying,” the Doctor said, her word final, “We need to work things out. I’ll land us somewhere else, so we can get out of your hair and then-“

The TARDIS almost knocked the Doctor off her feet then, and there came a distant yelp of pain from within the corridors. Probably the Master. _Hopefully_ the Master, actually. From the TARDIS, she received a sudden inflex of emotions – concern, worry, stress, anger, fear, mostly directed at herself, but also a vast quantity pointed towards the only other Time Lord in the universe.

“I know,” she said, quieter, rubbing at the smooth crystal, lost within herself, “I know, Sexy. I’ll see if we can talk on-board so you can keep an eye on us. I’m sorry. I am. It’s just… we’re all that’s left, me and him, and I can’t just abandon him like that.”

“It’s ‘him and I’,” came the correction.

The Doctor spun to find the Master watching her, a towel around his neck, looking like a drowned rat still. She tried to fiddle with her hands, to look like she’d been engrossed in work and not, in fact, having a whisper-argument with her ship about him. That never came off well. Or cool.

“How, um, long were you there?” she asked, as casually as she could. It came out croaky.

“Long enough to know this incarnation of you has no sense of grammar,” the Master replied. She scowled back at him. That could’ve just been an admittance to stalking her whole life. “And also, that you still call your timeship ‘ _Sexy’_.”

“That is perfectly normal behaviour,” the Doctor began. “Lots of pilots nickname their vessels.”

The Master accepted that with a nod, though he offered, “Lots of pilots don’t _rub_ their vessels like that.”

It was then that the Doctor realised that, in the effort of appearing busy, she had taken to stroking the TARDIS’ central lateral inclination trigger – currently, she blushed and dropped the hand. She still had to defend herself, however, and began with, “Lots of Time Lords nickname their TARDISes. It’s not weird. You nicknamed your old one.”

The Master’s face curdled inwards. “Not quite the same thing. ‘Sexy’ and ‘daft old cow’ are usually on the opposite ends of the spectrum.”

“Usually?” the Doctor prodded, only to get a _Stare_ for her efforts. Oh. Yeah. Point. “Anyway, um, you found the towels. Did you bring me one?”

“No,” the Master said, which wasn’t a surprise, only he was most definitely holding a spare towel in his hands. The Doctor stared at it, and then the Master clocked the towel too, as though he hadn’t noticed it was there. “Oh, this is for me. For when the first one gets wet.”

“Seriously?”

“I _could_ give it to you, I suppose,” the Master said, mostly to himself, “If you ask nicely enough.”

“I am not _begging_ for a towel,” the Doctor said, already tired of this game.

He smiled. “I never said ‘beg’.”

The Doctor _wanted_ to storm off into the depths of the TARDIS and not return until she’d spent so long in a bubble bath that she’d formed gills. She _wanted_ to rip the bloody towel from his hands and stuff it down his throat. She _wanted_ to take the towel still hung casually around his shoulders, the same one that he was using to rub at his hair and use it to throttle him.

But she was also aware that there was a lot of psychic feedback currently happening, so most of those violent urges weren’t her own, and that made it somewhat more palatable to ask, in the kindest voice she could manage, “Could I please have that towel?”

“Hm,” came the response. “Not quite good enough.”

Damn him.

“May I please have the towel, _Master_?”

His smile had more energy behind it than she’d seen all day, canines digging into his bottom lip as he handed the towel over. He watched with lidded eyes as she peeled off her coat and began to shake the water off, then took to towelling her hair. His own movements were made absently, as though he’d forgotten his own state of disarray entirely.

“You can’t abandon me,” the Master said. He was ridiculously smug about it.

“Not even a day ago you were begging me to kill you,” the Doctor replied back. “Are you really going to do this? Now?”

“You can’t abandon _me_!”

“Under certain circumstances,” she allowed. “However. If you do not stop gloating-“

“I’m not _gloating_ ,” the Master gloated. “I’m just surprised you’ve finally admitted to it.”

The Doctor didn’t deign to respond. She knew this Master. This was the Master who had danced on the bones of their people with glee, who had declared his victory even as he’d bled out in her arms, who covered any and all genuine emotion with joyful indifference. She couldn’t fight against that with _more_ indifference – that never led anywhere. And, clearly, this was a Master who believed in her, however slightly. Believed in her enough to escape certain death. And it really was her fault for the intelligent bushfire.

“You’re right,” she admitted, soft in the air, focusing more on the rough fabric of the towel against her scalp. “I couldn’t abandon you to die because you’re my friend, and you’ve always been my friend and I… miss you.”

The Master’s smile didn’t fade – he made the motion for it to go, a quick downturn of his lips, but his mouth had its own opinion, and stubbornly formed a fleeting grin, aimed primarily on the floor. Realising that he could entirely hide his reaction, he turned away, focusing primarily on the far wall – the same spot where his hologram had popped up, when she’d first visited Gallifrey’s ruins.

If she could admit anything, it was nice that there _were_ ruins. When she destroyed Gallifrey, there was nothing. The War was time locked, nothing getting in or getting out, and she’d never realised before then just how important a body was in the grieving process. It never felt real. Allowed her to pretend, when she was foolish, that Gallifrey was still waiting. That never turned out well.

Only now, Gallifrey _was_ still there, albeit smashed and shattered into pieces, stitched back together, and currently dripping on her floorboards.

The Doctor could live with a little dampness, so she shrugged off her own towel and moved over to the controls, working alongside the TARDIS to bring her into a steady flight inside the time vortex. No set destination. No idea on where they’d go. Or when. Or… lots of ‘or’, currently. She wasn’t a fan.

“You still can’t shield,” the Master muttered from behind.

“I can shield well enough around humans,” the Doctor returned. “It’s only nosy Time Lords that seem to catch what I’m thinking.”

“It’s not exactly being nosy when you’re broadcasting to half the ship,” the Master said. He walked into the Doctor’s line of sight, rubbing still at his hair. He gave the controls a considering look, though knew better than to attempt touching them. “Don’t you have a randomiser?”

“Of course, I have a randomiser,” the Doctor said.

He shrugged. “Use that then.”

“And afterwards? When we _land_?”

The Master sent her a droll look. “You and I both know that talking about this won’t lead anywhere. Why bother?”

“Because… because… aren’t we a little old to go running off into the stars together?” The Doctor blushed again when the meaning of her words registered. She hadn’t meant it like _that_ , and clearly the Master knew too, from the roll of his eyes.

“We’re both the first regenerations of a new cycle,” the Master said, which was not only true but helpful in marking where he chronologically came from, “Technically speaking, we’re young. Addled by post-regeneration mania. Anyone would believe that.”

The Doctor didn’t bother replying. She instead spun the randomiser and, upon realising it had randomised to Cheshire, England, spun it again. The next one was much more palatable. The height of the Roman Empire, at the heart of Italy, right around –

“Oh, we can’t go there,” the Master said.

“Why not?”

“The Romans have a long-lasting execution order for anyone under the name of Master,” he shrugged. “I’ve tried going back in different faces. Never works.”

“What did you _do_?” the Doctor asked, spinning the randomiser a second time. “Oh. 68th century, Palamona Cluster. A few distress signals leaking up from there.”

“What’s even _in_ the Palamona Cluster?” the Master considered the screen, tagging through the different signals. “Mining colonies? That’s boring.”

“It’s clearly not if it’s under duress.”

He considered this. “True.”

A destination then. An adventure. With the Master. Definitely _not_ as her companion. Just two Time Lords, running away together. Not together. In the same direction. Yeah. Like anyone was buying that.

The Master clicked his fingers, saying, “come on, love, we haven’t got all day.”

She smacked his hand away. “We’re already landing. Shove over.”

And then it continued, off into the Palamona Cluster, and beyond, she supposed. The Master took the lead, dropping the towel as he went, strolling out into blazing blue skies. She watched him go, rubbed idly at the TARDIS’ console, and then followed. So long as she didn’t think about her actions, or his, or paused to consider for even a _moment_ what they were doing… everything was fine.

Everything was absolutely perfect.


End file.
